


Cruel World I’m Gone

by vicsmoria



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, No Tuberculosis!, Not In My House, Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-10-06 00:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicsmoria/pseuds/vicsmoria
Summary: A series of snapshots following life for you and Arthur after the fall of the Van der Linde Gang.





	1. (No More) Cruel World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you go back for Arthur after Beaver Hollow is destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my series of short stories in which Arthur lives out the life he truly deserves! I’ve been planning this series for weeks and I’m very emotionally attached to it so I hope you enjoy.

“_I gave you all I had.” _

It was his last testament to a mentor - a father - long since departed from this world. 

Arthur clutches the heel of Dutch’s boot, desperately trying to hold onto the last tangible evidence that the man he remembered was still with him. Before the Devil on his shoulder known as Micah plagued them with false promises of glory. 

Even that is stripped from him as the shell of a leader pulls away and retreats into the darkness, leaving a battered and broken Arthur behind in the dirt. 

_Alone_. 

Arthur hurts. Hurts in ways he’s never felt before. He is no stranger to physical pain: having being beat, shot, even tortured. But this was a newfound suffering that leaves the heart he rediscovered shattered. Everything he’s ever known is dead and turning to ash as the last remnants of the Van der Linde’s burn away with Beaver Hollow.

There’s nothing left to salvage. But at least he managed to save those who still had a chance at life, away from the depravity. John, Abigail, Jack, Tilly, Sadie.

_You. _

It was unbearable to part ways with such a heavy air of finality surrounding the two of you. As he lifted you onto the back of Sadie’s horse with Abigail, your anguish was palpable. To hear you plead with him so desperately, begging to let you go along with him? It was worse than any bullet to the chest. 

Regardless, he wouldn’t hear any of it, caressing your hands with bruised fingers as your tears continued to fall. You then tried to reason with him, bless your heart, knowing his stubbornness all too well. Whispering such sweet things, pretty dreams of leaving it all behind and starting over together far away. 

Revenge was a fool's game, he was keenly aware, but it was well beyond that at this point. Now it was about making things right, and it was something only Arthur could do. Ever the dutiful guardian - even to a fault. 

He finds the inner strength to let you go and swears he’ll see you again soon, to live out those pretty dreams. 

Arthur never liked lying to you. 

As he drags himself over to the cliff side, inch by agonizing inch, he supposes there’s some truth to his words. Perhaps all those prayers Swanson said on Arthur’s behalf put him in God’s good graces after decades of depravity. If He’s as forgiving as the Reverend foretold, maybe he’ll allow Arthur to watch over you from _ wherever _he winds up. He never thought himself a devout man, but in light of recent events he decides there’s no time like the present. 

Redemption had been a tumultuous climb for Arthur. But as he lays at the top of the mountains overlooking Roanoke Ridge, the effort was worth the outcome. He feels lighter, no longer burdened by crosses Dutch forced upon his shoulders. A veil has been lifted, and the colors of the dawn seem so much more vibrant than before. Shades of orange and pink blend together seamlessly and cast an ethereal glow over him and the country he loves. 

He almost forgets about the excruciating aches that plague his body as the cool kiss of morning mist hits his cheeks. As the gang’s - _ex-gang’s _ \- primary enforcer he never could afford submitting to fatigue. But he feels tired, so tired, and he allows himself the luxury. Just this once. There is nothing left for him to do anymore.

_Oh_, he muses, _ the sun’s coming up._

* * *

You had been riding with Abigail on one horse with Sadie taking point on the other, rifle at the ready, for what felt like hours. Arthur’s last order of business was entrusting Sadie with escorting the two of you to safety - as _far_ the hell away from this mess as possible. 

Everything felt numb, the only sensation registering in your mind was Abigail’s trembling hands against your waist as you all rode onward in silence. Tears still fresh on your face as you brought yourself further and further away from what was now a past life. And what could have potentially held a future.

_Arthur. _

Yet another pang in your chest as guilt wracks the very foundation of your soul. You had been compliant in sending the man you love into the wolves den. Into the company of men who would spill his blood with smiles on their faces. 

_You could’ve stopped him. _

_You could’ve gone with him. _

**If he dies** **it’s your fault. **

Without a word, you pull tightly on your horse’s reins and bring it to an abrupt stop. Abigail gasps lightly in surprise, peering over your shoulder to see what was the matter. Sadie notices the interruption.

“Sugar, we have to keep moving,” Sadie urged gently, trotting her own horse up next to yours. She was right, they did have to keep moving. 

But not you.

You looked at her, gaze firm. “I have to go back.” Sadie opens her mouth to interject. Arthur was a proud man, but on the verge of tears he had implored her to keep you safe - _ alive. _She empathised with your plight, truly she did. But this was her last promise to a man she practically owed her own life to. You stop her before she can protest your obstinance. 

“I _need _to do this, Sadie. You know that.” Your eyes soften and she bites her lip, “You would for Jake.” Sadie’s eyes widen at your mention of her departed husband, knuckles whitening around the stock of her rifle. Her impassioned devotion to Jake began to put cracks in her usually hardened resolve and now it was her turn to shed a tear. She’s quick to wipe it away and takes a moment to compose herself.

Abigail looks between the two of you, disbelief apparent on her face. “You can’t be serious, Dutch has finally lost it! You heard what happened to,” she tries to hold back a sob, “to J-John...” Abigail grips your wrist tightly, “If you go back, there's no doubt he’ll kill you too!” 

You smile at her wistfully; all of you had been carrying this heavy burden of grief in one way or another. The heartbreak was insurmountable. An entire way of life, a home - a _ family _\- was nothing more than dust in the wind now. Dutch’s swansong of one more score - of a better world for the Van der Linde’s - had enchanted the lot of you. It effectively distracted you from the treacherously thin ice he was willingly leading you on. 

But now the honied melody had turned rotten.

“Arthur needs me,” was all you could say. Abigail looks to Sadie for a voice of reason in all of this but she is already dismounting her horse, offering its reins up to you. 

“My horse is faster," She says, looking at you expectantly. Suddenly words elude you as you struggle to express your gratitude.

Now it’s Sadie’s turn to interrupt you. “It’s okay. Now get a move on.” She promptly helps you down, holding onto your hand for a beat longer before pulling you into a tight embrace. Her arms are so warm, and it adds to your pain knowing you have to pull yourself from them soon. 

“Be safe. And,” she squeezes your shoulders, “bring him _ home_.” The gravity of her request is filled with hope. You find yourself crying again and you nod in affirmation. Sadie had done her best to follow through on her oaths, and now it’s your turn to do the same. 

You look back up to Abigail who is clearly devastated with your decision but she tries to make peace with it - for your sake. Another smile tinged with sadness tugs at your lips and you offer her your hand. 

“You’re just as bullheaded as that man of yours!” Despite her hard tone, her words are laced with admiration and affection. You laugh genuinely for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“I guess we were just meant to be.” 

Abigail brushes her fingers softly across your own. “That you are,” she all but whispers. She finds the strength to let you go and you mount up once more. As you settle into your saddle, you regard your friends for what could possibly be the last time. You turn your horse and prepare to head back into uncertainty, but Abigail calls your name a final time.

“You,” she pauses to mull over her farewell before deciding on, “you both gotta see lil’ Jack grow up. He’s gonna be somethin’ great one day!” Her words are bittersweet but they hold so much promise. You swipe the last of your tears away; there was no room for weakness anymore.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

* * *

Your heart beats wildly against your ribs but you disregard it as you urge your horse onward through the forest surrounding Beaver Hollow. Determination boils your blood, refusing to sit idly by and let Arthur walk willingly into his own grave. You curse yourself for not fighting harder with him earlier. But this was Arthur Morgan, and persuading him to take you willingly into what would be a _ bloodbath _was always going to be a losing battle. 

Arthur wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn. 

You cut through every available shortcut on the trails you know; stray branches scratch at your face but you can’t bring yourself to notice or care. The sun is just beginning to peek over the tree-line as you find yourself back at what was once the Van der Linde’s final campsite. 

All that remains now is a charred husk as the blaze that consumed it dwindles down to a few meager cinders. Ashes cascade down like snowfall with the morning breeze around all the ruin. What once teemed with so much life had been desecrated beyond recognition. Despite the emptiness, you leave your horse behind a tree near the precipice of Beaver Hollow, away from any lingering eyes that could still be amidst. 

At your hip, the pearl-inlaid revolver gifted to you by Arthur suddenly feels heavier. You’re no stranger to a gun, but aiming it at another human in contrast to an animal is still a foreign concept. Arthur had tried to keep your hands clean of blood, but he couldn’t always protect you from the dangers of the world you both resided in. He could at least provide you with the necessary tools.

Embedded in the dirt are multiple footprints - both human and equine - and you decide that’s as good a trail to follow as any. Tentatively you approach the camp, hand hovering just over your holster as you mentally prepare yourself for the worst. You hadn’t been witness to the carnage that transpired here, but the aftermath doesn’t paint a pretty picture. 

A single body lays in a crumpled heap at the center of camp. The recognition of its dress wrenches the dread you feel deeper into the pit of your stomach. Before you can begin to parse what’s in front of you, your feet are carrying you to Miss Grimshaw. You drop to your knees beside her, eyes glazed over and hands still clutching at the fatal gunshot wound that claimed her life. A thin layer of soot covers her face and you take care to brush it away with shaking hands as you close the eyes that once held so much fire. 

The camp’s matriarch may not have always been the gentlest of women, but she cared for all the girls with a passion you never saw even in your own mother. It was a tough form of love she dished out, but it had emboldened you into a fierce woman much like herself during your years with the gang. For all the grief you girls gave her, all the time spent complaining about her strictness, you are forever indebted to her for teaching you how to be a woman in this harsh world. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t shed another tear, but as you gather Miss Grimshaw up into your arms you can’t hold back the onslaught of anguish. Fresh tears fall onto her cheeks as you bring her closer, resting your forehead against her own. You only cry harder when you feel just how cold she is. 

As much as it hurts, you have to press forward. You brush the hair off her face and place a single kiss on her forehead before laying her gently back down. You cross her hands over her chest - she looks more at peace, as if she was only sleeping. With a hand to her cheek, you promise her you’ll return for her and continue on. 

You turn your attention back to the trail of footprints, following them into the cave’s mouth behind the camp. It had always exuded an ominous aura that left the hairs on the back of your neck raised, but now was not the time for petty superstitions. You have your revolver at the ready as you walk into the cave as silently as possible. Whatever shadows could be lurking within would not get the jump on you. 

_It’s just like a hunting trip_, you tell yourself in an attempt to assuage your fear. It’s a piss poor comparison; you wished it was a simple as keeping yourself hidden from ravenous beasts on four legs. But this was a different kind of animal, one with a human face and no qualms about taking a life.

Every echo that reverberates through the extensive tunnel system has your heart lurching into your throat. But you remain tenacious, continuing onward with two sets of muddy footprints as your guide through the caves.

The trail runs cold at the start of a rusty ladder and you breathe a sigh of relief that you’ll be moving onward and upwards out of the darkness. That solace gets caught in your throat at the sound of rushed steps heading in your direction. Panic singes your nerves and you quickly find shelter behind a large boulder near the ladder’s base. 

You clasp a hand over your mouth to contain your shuddering breaths, hoping you don’t give your location away from the faceless cave-dwellers. The acoustics of the tunnels distort most of what they’re saying, but you can make out two distinct voices hurriedly passing by you. 

“Dutch I think we should-”

“I believe you’ve done enough ‘thinking’ for the time being, Micah.”

Distress evolves into white-hot ire at the realization of who exactly you were alone with. The betrayal you experienced was nothing in comparison to Arthur’s twenty years of loyalty being discarded, you could admit that. But it still left a hole within you that was just as deep. 

You stumbled into the Van der Linde’s just a trepid young woman trying to escape the shackles of an abusive home. As a man who dreamed of fame and fortune, it would’ve all to easy for him to turn you into the numerous bounty hunters your father sent after you. Weave together some extravagant tale of the big bad outlaws holding the wealthy socialite’s runaway daughter for ransom to turn a higher profit.

But Dutch had cast that all aside without a second thought and taken you in as another one of his ragtag children. Who your family was before did not define you. He had given you the chance to change the path life had predetermined for you. 

That man was gone. Perhaps he was never really there to begin with - a mere facade. The inability to adapt to a rapidly changing world had broken his spirit and instead left something warped - unrecognizable. Leaving him susceptible to the temptations of a snake’s hiss that lurked just beyond in the underbrush. 

The casualties - _ his _casualties. Everyone’s faith he continually prattled on about that smothered with his own two hands. 

_Arthur_.

The fingers clutching your gun feel restless all of a sudden.

You peer from behind your cover as they unknowingly pass you by, an imposing chest being carried between the two of them. 

_Our money. _

The culmination of the gang’s hard work after the mess the two of them created in Blackwater. Plans, schemes, and money that people had bled for - _ died _for. What gives them the right to run off into the night while the remainder of them would suffer from the aftermath of their reign of destruction? You practically draw blood from how hard you bite your lip, holding back your rage.

The barrel of your revolver is quickly pointed at Dutch’s back with quivering hands. It’s a shot as clear as day. You can end everything here and now, make up for countless years of false hope. Avenge those who fell in hopes of earning their keep and Dutch’s eternal admiration. 

_It was all horseshit, _ you think bitterly with gritted teeth.

You go to pull back the gun’s hammer when all too familiar voice comes to mind. 

_Revenge is a fool’s game. _

It causes you to hesitate, the shaking of your hands intensifying. Your eyes dart between Dutch and Micah’s silhouettes and the morning light bleeding in at the cave’s summit. 

_Bring him home…_

The finger resting just over the trigger retreats and you lower the gun to pursue someone much more significant. 

You leave them with a final sentiment.

“Your time will come,” you whisper and hope that the wind carries that declaration up as far as it can travel. You’ll let the “when” and “where” be decided by a higher authority, whoever that might be. 

With haste, you grab a rung and begin to climb up the ladder as fast as your arms can carry you. 

Onwards and upwards.

* * *

As you continue to push yourself to every limit possible, your body screams from exhaustion. You feel as if your legs could give out at any moment but you can’t bring yourself to care as the steep hills transition into the cliffs of Roanoke Ridge. 

You’ve tracked a series of hoof prints as far as you can before they end with the body of Arthur’s precious Appaloosa, Moonstone. Yet another innocent soul taken by this path of indiscriminate bloodshed. 

There’s still no sign of Arthur, and you’re too frantic to decide if that's a good sign or not. Your breathing is labored, lungs burning and heavy in your chest. But you can’t give up now, not with so much at stake. 

_Bring him home._

Again Sadie’s words resonate in your mind; regardless of the outcome you _ will _find him. You have to - he deserves that. 

_Face me to the west so I can see the setting sun…_

A sunbreak slips through the morning clouds over the horizon, saturating them in varying hues of blue and yellow. It’s captivating, drawing you to the cliff’s edge despite the exhaustion in your muscles. A gentle wind that rolls over the treetops of varying oaks and cedars envelops you. You follow its direction in a daze and it leads you around the corner of a mountainside trail. 

You briefly entertain the idea that your weariness has finally dissolved into delusion. For there amongst the wild poppies, you find a figure in the shape of Arthur laying under a stone alcove facing the still rising sun. It might be the work of a cruel God, but be it reality or mirage you’re just overjoyed he’s _ here_. You don’t even realize you’re crying again. 

And you’re running. Again. Your body is wailing but you don’t feel it, and even if you could you don’t care. You just don’t _ fucking _care.

“Arthur…” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper but as you get closer,

“Arthur!” You cry out this time, desperate to get his attention. To get any sort of reaction. 

_Please. Please. PLEASE! _

You collapse beside him and sob in relief when you see his eyelids flutter open weakly. He’s looks a wreck, covered in bruises and blood - a mixture of his own and god knows who else’s. Ugly splotches of red and purple are scattered across his face and his left eye is practically swollen shut. You realize he was going to lay here until he succumbed to the severity of his injuries and your heart breaks all over again. Your hands find purchase on both his cheeks as you move him carefully to look at you. Somehow he finds the energy to smile. 

“An angel,” he manages to wheeze, bringing a hand up to card through your tousled hair. You let out a choked laugh and you place your own hand atop his. Keeping his touch on you to reaffirm he wasn’t just a clever hallucination. 

“I...it’s me, my love. I’m here,” you bury your face in his chest. His heartbeat is faint but it’s there. By God it's there. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. Your tears keep coming with no end in sight and they mix in with the blood on his jacket. 

He tries to shush you, his split lip kissing your temple tenderly. “Why are crying darlin’?” It’s asked so sweetly it practically hurts your teeth and again you let out a huff of laughter. Your amusement quickly shifts to frustration - you can’t help it. 

“You stupid fool!" The words are harsh but they have no edge to them. Now it’s his turn to laugh, albeit feebly. He places another languid kiss to the crown of your head this time. “You silly man,” you pound your fists softly on his chest. 

“You were just going to-“ the words get stuck painfully in your throat. “Going to d-die here?” The thought of losing him weighed heavy on you and now you’re finally _free. _The both of you are. 

Arthur doesn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.” It’s enough. He’s enough. He always is. 

You’re weeping openly now against him, and he finds himself starting to succumb to his own emotions. With everything said and done, his grief hits him in one tremendous wave. The both of you are sobbing as the sun rises in the east. As it has done, and will continue to do for the two of you.

And so you cry.

For the past.

For the lost.

And now for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the logistics of certain parts might be a little spotty (i.e the Pinkertons, Dutch and Micah reconvening, etc.) but I did my very best. If you have anything you'd love to see in future chapters, hit a bitch up.


	2. The Eyes of a Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Arthur reflect on days gone by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all are done being sad because now it's time for fun and *slams hands on desk* tent sex!

Arthur rises with the sun. It’s a force of habit, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shake it - _ especially _after twenty years. But it feels less like a burden now than it did back within the confines of a camp. There’s no debt to be collected, no banks to rob, no one to beat, shoot or kill. There’s just the dawn slipping in through the canvas of the tent to gently awaken him, with you nestled at his side. 

Simplicity had always eluded Arthur. Life instead favored dealing him a hand from a shuffled deck of chaos and discord. He eagerly welcomed the time spent alone, camping amongst the trees and by rivers. The only eyes watching him were those of the animals who wandered past, regarding him briefly before meandering on. 

Now he’s back to basics. A tent as shelter, your bow and his gun as a means to provide. It’s not ideal, and it isn’t _ permanent_. But for the time being it’s comfortable, exceptionally so with the numerous boar pelts (your doing) splayed beneath you two. 

A few weeks had come and gone since the fall of the Van der Linde’s. Or had it been months? He can’t quite recall. A large portion of that time had been spent recovering from the severity of his injuries. Due to his notoriety with the law, you thought it wise to avoid towns until the dust settles (whenever that might be). Without the aid of a _ proper _ doctor however, said recovery had been a tumultuous process. Thankfully you remember Hosea’s medical teachings, and while it was minuscule, it’s enough to get him back on his feet. Bedrest handles the remainder of his recuperation. 

Grateful doesn’t even begin to describe how Arthur feels about everything you’ve done for him. His gratitude is insurmountable but you don’t need him to verbally express anything to know that. He’s alive, and that’s more than enough for you. And the feel of your gentle heartbeat against him every morning is more than enough for him.

He watches you sleeping soundly, cheek pressed to his chest and your arm wrapped loosely around his waist. It’s times like this he wishes he had his journal. He hasn’t been able to purchase another as of yet because, again, his aforementioned wanted level. His fingers are itching to draw - you specifically. The restlessness is assuaged instead by pushing the strap of your chemise down slightly, rubbing circles against the soft skin of your shoulder. 

You’re awakened by the tickle of his beard when he places a kiss to your cheek. Both the hair on his head and face are longer than he usually prefers to keep it. Arthur lacks access to a barber as well as a straight razor, but you don’t seem to mind. You giggle as he continues to pepper your face with kisses; you look up at him with sleep-addled adoration. 

“Good morning mountain man,” you hum. He huffs in amusement at your new favorite term of endearment. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean t’ wake you so early darlin’,” he murmurs against the crown of your head. You shush him gently - the apology isn’t required or necessary. Old habits die hard it seems. 

You perch your chin up on his chest, a smile playing on your lips. “It’s okay, should be getting up soon anyway. Go and fetch us some breakfast.” 

After Beaver Hollow, you tried to salvage as many supplies as possible from what was left of the ruined campsite. Food, medicine, anything. There wasn’t much but what you did manage to gather had run thin. Afterwords, you decided to travel westward and thankfully the Cumberland Forest was teeming with game. Enough for you to stockpile rations _ and _some extra pelts to sell to a resident trapper. Every cent counts considering the circumstances. 

Arthur shakes his head, “Nah, don’t worry bout’ that just yet. Let’s just lay here a lil’ longer.” You both have nothing but time. There’s no errands to run, no chores to complete, no people to appease. There’s freedom to just _ be_. 

You gasp dramatically, "_The _Arthur Morgan, wanting to have a lazy day?” He guffaws at your impishness and pulls you closer to him.

“Oh hush up you,” he tickles your hips and you squeal in delight. Arthur has been healing in more ways than just physical. He has relearned how to be lighthearted, playful. His emotions are free from heavy shackles he locked himself into. There is still time needed to mourn, and the metaphorical wounds may never fully heal. But if you’re there to kiss the scars on his heart, he reckons he’ll be just fine. 

Arthur relents in his affectionate onslaught so he can hold you freely with both arms. You sigh, content, and you idly run your fingers through the thin hairs on his chest. The even rhythm of his heart is almost enough to lull you back to sleep, but Arthur rouses you with a spontaneous thought.

“You remember the first time we met?” It’s poised so innocently you can’t help but grin. You sit up slightly to meet his gaze and he’s looking at you expectantly. 

“Feeling sentimental, are we?”

He shrugs, “A lot has changed since then.” There’s pleasure in reminiscing about times past. They’re memories that aren’t tainted by doubt or loss. Just new beginnings. He twirls a loose strand of your hair around his finger, waiting for an answer. You roll your eyes playfully and you hoist yourself up to straddle his hips. 

“Of course I do, silly.” 

How could you not? 

You had been living on your own for four years and then some, gladly abandoning the role of a rich family’s daughter at sixteen. All the silk and roses in the world couldn’t mask the ugly reality. You were the eldest and only child. And your father was more than happy to sell you off to the highest bidder, regardless of who that might be. The caliber of “gentleman” he had lined up would put even Micah Bell to shame.

So you left, simply put. Running off to live amongst the greenery instead of admiring it from afar in a gilded cage with clipped wings. You father had not taken kindly to this, retaliating by sending a slew of bounty hunters out to drag you back. They had finally caught up to you years later in Tall Trees, chasing you all the way into Blackwater when...

“I barreled straight into you. Practically too out of breath to tell you my name.” All you could manage to utter was a simple plea.

_ Help. _

Arthur remembers it clear as day: you clutching his shirt, trembling hands, four devious men approaching you. A lady in desperate need and he was more than happy to oblige you. With assistance in the form of himself, Hosea, and Dutch. 

He tucks the hair he was playing with behind your ear and opts to put his hands on your hips now. “You looked up at me with those pretty doe eyes, how could I deny you anything?” 

You titter, leaning down to grace his lips with a chaste peck. “_Comment chevaleresque.” _It’s his turn to roll his eyes.

“Again with the French.” His calloused fingers rub your skin through the thin fabric of your chemise. “When we brought you back, we all thought you were gonna be the camp princess,” he says with humor in his voice. “But…” He trails off. You continue the thought.

“_But_ I showed everyone I knew my way around a bow,” your smirk is tinged with smug satisfaction, “You specifically.” He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking for another kiss. You _ generously _ decide to meet him halfway. 

“Brought back the biggest buck I’ve ever seen.”

“And how many arrows were in it?” You ask coyly, bringing your bottom lip in between your teeth. Arthur inches closer. 

“Just one, straight between the eyes.” You're beaming with pride and Arthur feels warmer in its glow. “Pearson’s stew had never tasted so fine.” 

The tips of your noses are touching, Arthur brings a hand up to card through your hair. The look in Arthur’s eyes shifts from admiration to something more..._intense. _“You’re amazin’,” he whispers reverently, lips a tantalizing few inches apart. 

You close the distance between you with a kiss. Arthur spares no time with innocent formalities and deepens it. 

Everything had been such a mess as of late, complicated. It left no time for the intimacy he craves. Now there’s no walls, no nagging voice whispering what he desires is not meant for his rough hands. There’s just you, gently nipping his bottom lip and asking for more.

And again he is more than happy to oblige you. 

Right now he feels like a man starved. His kisses are like him: rough but underlined with a reserved gentleness. You respond in kind and each one is sweeter than the last, leaving the both of you wanting more.

Arthur brings a hand up to cup a breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple and reveling in the soft sighs that escape you. You allow him to be selfish in his pursuit for contact as he rids you of your chemise. It bunches up around your waist and you shudder as he roams your chest freely now, marking the skin he can reach with his lips.

A simple roll of your hips and you feel Arthur beneath you, eager and warm. He responds in kind with a groan and you mimic the motion again. And again. 

The third time he stops you, gripping you just enough to bruise - just the way you like it. His jaw is clenched and you can feel the tightness in his muscles underneath your fingers. There’s no room for teasing, he needs this _ now_. His wish is your command. 

You move back slightly, allowing him room to undo his pants just enough to free himself while you remove your drawers. He lifts you easily and you sink down onto him, moaning together in unison at the sensation. 

You hadn’t realized how much you truly missed this, the feeling of being filled so perfectly by Arthur. You want it over, and over, and _ over _ again. This is a sentiment you audibly express and he eagerly complies, thrusting up to meet the movement of your hips. You throw your head back and let the world outside become acquainted with the sound of Arthur’s name. 

It’s his turn now for hands in his hair, and your fingers entangle themselves in his long locks. You tug, just enough for it to sting, and he growls low and deep in his throat. It’s a recent discovery, one found by accident while helping him wash his hair. You quickly began to experiment and Arthur is left a satisfied participant. 

You pull again, tilting his head back so he’s looking up at you. It’s quite a sight: face flushed, hair wild, lips parted and begging for more. 

Harder. Harder. _ Harder. _

Arthur never could say no to a lady in waiting.

His pace evolves into a rapid, hard cadence with his thumb tracing tight circles over your clit. Every synapse is surging with a white-hot electricity and a pressure is rapidly building in the pit of your stomach. Your whines become more high-pitched and frequent as you’re pushed closer to that familiar precipice. 

“That’s it girl,” his rough voice has you shuddering, “Doing so good.” He accentuates his praise with another well-calculated thrust. It hits you just so and you keen, clutching his shoulders to keep yourself upright. 

He does it again, harder this time. “You like that?” It’s rhetorical but you still nod frantically, desperate. He gives you what you want again, as always. “Good girl.” Arthur finally coaxes you over the edge and you break, spectacularly so. 

Crying out his name like gospel, Arthur has never thought his name could sound so beautiful. As you continue to come undone above him, he pulls from you and chases his own release. It doesn’t take much and he unravels, spilling onto his stomach. 

You fall forward and Arthur is careful to catch you, lowering you gently to his side once more. The two of you are covered in a thin sheen of sweat and you suppose hunting will have to be postponed. A lakeside bath sounds too appealing right now. 

Birds sing overhead and Arthur takes a moment to regard his surroundings: a canvas roof and the shelter of the trees. The clarity of post-orgasm bliss helps him realize, _ truly _realize, that he’s satisfied but something is still missing. He thought he could want for not, that having you and the open country ahead would leave him fulfilled. 

And yet…

“Hey,” he garners your attention and you look up at him inquisitively. “You remember that homestead at O'Creagh’s Run?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not too crazy about the ending but the rest is pretty solid. up next: you and artie get a house!


	3. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Arthur find your new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet update this time around. As always, enjoy!

Despite all the years of living amongst the elements, you can’t deny the pleasures of a roof over your head and a feather mattress beneath you. On occasion, Arthur would spoil you with a night away from dirt and canvas in a hotel: a luxury filled with plush pillows, whiskey, and unrestricted lovemaking. You still have the decency to blush at the memories. 

It’s funny how you forget that one of the basic human needs consists of four walls that are meant to keep _ out _what you considered home. Arthur on the other hand had lived nomadically for so long he didn’t think himself capable of anything resembling domestic. But for the first time in his life, it seems like he is ready to settle down. While it’s a surprising notion to say the least, it’s one that has you giddy with excitement as your horse bounds onward. 

During the ride, Arthur regales you with stories of a veteran he befriended at the very homestead you’re traveling to. A stubborn horse with a golden coat who ran off with his wooden leg. How just the two of them managed to reel in “The Great Tyrant” of O’Creagh’s Run. Their triumphant vanquishing of the dastardly she-wolf. And finally the monstrous boar that tragically led to the demise of the brave veteran. Arthur tries not to sound heartbroken, but you can hear the lilt in his voice he tries to hide.

You try to lighten the mood, his heart is already burdened with enough grief right now. “The tales of Arthur the outlaw and Hamish the veteran,” you muse, “oh it all sounds rather gallant.” You let out a dreamy sigh that has Arthur chuckling in response.

“Don’t know what kinda crazy would pick that one up for a read,” his words have a humorous, albeit dry, tone. 

“It sounds like one of the books I read as a girl. Valiant hunters traversing into the unknown wilderness. Armed with nothing but the bows on their backs and their sharp wit.” You continue to ramble. Arthur peers at you from over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked and a sly grin on his face.

“Well thank you for answering my question, princess.” Your scoff is accentuated with a playful swat to his arm.

“If you hadn’t already killed it, I would wish for that nasty boar to gobble you up!” He gifts you again with his laughter, deep and hearty. It still has the ability to tint your cheeks a delicate shade of pink. 

Arthur turns his attention forward again. “Never heard you talk so mean before! My apologies to the lady.” It's your turn to laugh now.

“I suppose I can let this transgression go. Now,” you wrap your arms tighter around him, “onward to our new manor, sir!” You lace your request with a dramatically posh accent that has Arthur rolling his eyes. With a few quick spurs, his horse breaks into a gallop that has the mountain wind whipping through your hair.

The curtain of greenery draws back, unveiling the open trails and glistening waters of O’Creagh’s Run. Rays from the afternoon sun reflect on the lake’s surface, making it appear almost crystalline with a humble cabin residing on its shores. You've traveled this way numerous times before, but you still can’t contain your gasp of awe at it’s untamed beauty. Arthur smiles at your childlike wonderment; it’s a shared sentiment.

As the cabin approaches, Arthur feels a heaviness in his chest. He still mourns the loss of Hamish, a man who showed him nothing but kindness from the moment he met him. It was rare in his line of work to feel that kind of warmth, the kind Arthur vehemently believed he wasn’t worthy of. But Hamish could care less about those details. What he saw was another lonely soul, encumbered by expectations forced upon them by an unforgiving world. 

Yet another person Arthur was forever indebted to - the list seemed to be piling up. And he would always be uncertain of how he could show his gratitude. But he thinks a good way to start is to make sure Hamish's home would continue to be warm, filled with new hunting trophies and a fire on the hearth. Perhaps, even someday a _ family. _

One day at a time. 

Arthur brings his horse to a stop as you approach the front porch, hitching it on a nearby post. He dismounts and, as usual, offers his assistance to help you down as well. You gladly accept, thanking him with a kiss on the cheek. 

“Your castle awaits, your majesty.” Arthur lays a hand on the small of your back while you happily take in your surroundings.

“Oh Arthur,” you coo, “It’s...it’s,” language suddenly eludes you. All those lessons growing up, hours spent on proper verbiage and grammar gone as if they've never happened. Your tutor would be livid if she could see you now. With the sun beaming on you and the soft waves crashing on the shoreline, a single word comes to mind.

_ "Perfect_.”

Arthur can’t help but agree as he sweeps you into his arms by your waist. A fit of giggles escapes you as he twirls you around, peppering your face with kisses. As Arthur carries you to the threshold of your new home a gentle breeze envelops the two of you, rolling over the wildflowers and overgrown grass. He doesn’t consider himself superstitious, but it feels like a good sign.

For the first time in years, he thinks he's doing something right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crazy about this one but I hope y'all enjoy my garbage. I just wanted my two babies to have a house finally.


	4. Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nightmares keep you up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back with some intensity and sadness. i hope it all makes sense and above all else i hope you all like it.

The breeze that kisses your face feels different. Warmer. This time in the morning at O'Creagh's Run there’s a bitter chill in the air. It’s a cold that reaches down to your bones and leaves your fingers numb. This, however, is a gentle gust that invites you to wake up instead of demanding it. 

Grass is plush beneath your deerskin pelts in contrast to the cotton sheets from Annesburg that you had grown accustomed to. Shelter comes in the form of a simple roof of canvas, sunlight lazily creeping in. 

Gone is your homestead of six months. All the work, meals, and rebuilding a mere dream as you pull back the tent and find yourself back at Clemens Point. 

Jack is running through the rolling grass with Cain yapping at his heels. Abigail awaits them and their impending mess back at her tent with crossed arms. 

Sean flirts with Karen. Kieran tends to the horses. Miss Grimshaw scolds Mary-Beth for her apparent “slacking”.

It’s all back to how it was. Before things…

Before…

You can’t seem to recall what this supposed “before” is. It all fades away, as most dreams do. Locked away in the depths of the subconscious. But when you see Hosea pass by, an indescribable ache in your heart has tears streaming down your cheeks. An emptiness wracks you. You’re running before you can register why. 

_ If you’re too slow… _

_ Too late… _

_ He’ll d- _

Hosea seems bewildered about why you’re so exasperated. A wry smile graces his face.“Well good morning to you too, my dear. Are we that eager to see me?” He teases, lighthearted in nature. 

You’re rendered speechless from his casualness. Hosea looks vibrant, jovial. Just how you remembered him.

_ Alive. _

Does he not know what happens? In Saint Denis. When…

_ When what? _

The Pinkertons. They...

_ What about them? _

Again, you don’t have answers. Just a jumble of confused thoughts that feel painfully heavy in your head. So you wrap your arms around his waist and hold him close. You need a tangible reminder that he’s here: a man, a leader, a friend, a surrogate father. 

Hosea is taken aback again but he returns the affection, chuckling to himself. “What on Earth is going on with you, girl?” 

You squeeze tighter, burying your face in his chest. He smells of tobacco and ginseng, the familiarity puts you at ease. “I had the most terrible nightmare,” you say quietly. “But I can’t seem to remember it.” 

It’s all painfully blurry, growing even heavier in the back of your mind. 

_ Get him out of here. _

_ Run. _

Go where? There’s nowhere safer than camp. 

Dutch will protect _everyone_. 

“Oh? Well don’t worry-“

Hosea goes eerily silent as the barrel of a gun fires, cutting through the morning air like thunder. Droplets of warm liquid splatter across your face, trickling down your forehead. A sickeningly familiar scent hangs heavy in the air, nauseating. _Blood_. 

Trembling, you dare to look up to find a fresh bullet wound now embedded in Hosea. A single shot bursts through his shoulder, blooming into a hideous flower of flesh and bone. He stares at the wound blankly, fingers twitching slightly. Death has him in his embrace and Hosea doesn’t seem to feel it. 

You’re panting, a scream burning in your throat as Hosea grows colder by the second. The sounds refuse to come out. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth as he slumps against you, wheezing his last words.

_"It was just a dream_._”_

The ground crumbles beneath you then, dirt deteriorating into nothing. You desperately clutch Hosea, terrified to lose him again. But no matter how tightly you hold on, he still slips from your grasp as you eventually lose your footing. 

You pathetically reach out into the abyss for him, for anything, but bring back nothing. 

Falling further and further, it all comes back. It hits you all like that same gunshot. 

Sean, Kieran, Susan.

_Hosea. _

They’re all dead.

And Arthur…

You’re running again on Roanoke Ridge. Chest heaving, lungs burning, muscles aching. Running and running and running, but you make no progress. 

_Arthur!_

You burn through all your energy in an attempt to go faster. It hurts - excruciating. Ligaments feel like they’re tearing apart tendon by tendon, but you don’t care. Arthur is just out of reach, eyes glazed and arms limp at his side. 

_Please, he’s right there!_

You try to call his name, but the sound is locked in your throat. The syllables don’t form no matter how much you try. All you can do is pathetically try to move forward - to be with him. 

The poppies surrounding him rustle violently the more vigorously you push yourself to every limit. Their leaves caress Arthur’s face as if to mock your plight.

Your heart threatens to rupture from over-exhaustion but as the distance _ finally _begins to close, you can't bring yourself to care.

Just when Arthur is an arm out of reach, so _ tantalizingly _close, your muscles go rigid. 

It all hurts, everywhere at once like wildfire.

Then it doesn’t. 

Nothing has never been so terrifying.

An arrow pierces your chest, finding its way through your heart and out through your ribs. You’re brought to your knees. 

You sputter, trying to bring any air in to alleviate the pain. Bring life to thwart the impending end. 

The alleviation never comes. Just more agony and some blood. 

You wonder if this is how the game you hunt feels. Teetering on the precipice of life and death after your arrow hits it’s fatal mark. They cry out for mercy that goes unheard. 

Irony is a miserable bitch. 

You fall forward, face in the dirt a mere inches away from Arthur. A familiar voice whispers in your ear as you struggle to find the energy to merely crawl. Blood - _ your _blood - seeps into the ground; bloodied mud cakes beneath your fingernails in your desperation.

“Have _ faith_,” it sneers, “you’ll be with him soon.”

The world turns darker and darker the more you try to reach for him. The flowers have ceased their shaking. 

_Now...nothing._

* * *

You shoot up in bed, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to your skin. A silent scream burns in your lungs. You’re hyperventilating and you desperately try to compose yourself, heart hammering wildly against your ribs. 

_Focus, focus, focus._

Your eyes dart around the room, taking in your surroundings. 

_Reminders._

The quilt blanket beneath your fingers. A partition in the form of a sheet next to the bed. The skull of a moose hanging over the mantle. A dwindling fire in the hearth. 

And Arthur. Sleeping soundly next to you. 

_Arthur. _

You reach out to him with shaking hands, running them over his cheek. Reaffirming reality. 

The prickle of his freshly shaved stubble tickles your hand. Hair soft from a recent bath. Lips chapped.

He’s here. _ Actually _here.

As much as you want to kiss him, have him _ fuck _ the fear away, you don’t want to wake him. Not now when he’s _ finally _started sleeping soundly again. Arthur shifts slightly in bed but he isn’t roused from your touching, thank goodness. You find the energy to smile, and you plant a delicate kiss against his temple before sliding out of bed. Sleep won’t come anytime soon. 

Silently slipping out into the night, the wind’s chill nips at you clad in only a chemise and Arthur’s coat. It’s a welcome sensation to quell the heat enveloping you. 

Signs of spring sleep within the surrounding forest. The birds have flown back north and nest in the trees. Bears have awoken from slumber and meander through the hills as they please. Wildflowers are just beginning to bloom, even more bulbs bursting through the dirt to count. 

New life. 

For you and Arthur too, in a sense.

That should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. Not right now.

Now that things have settled down, the grief has been gnawing at you gradually. There's more time for you to focus on it since Arthur had fully recovered. It comes back in waves, varying in intensity but painful all the same. And the nightmares they brought were just as vivid. 

Shaking the most recent from your mind, you regard the full moon hanging just over the lake. Brilliant white rays reflect on the water’s surface, dancing in tandem with the ripples of the water striders. It puts you at ease and you find yourself drawn to the scene. 

You stand barefoot at the shore, letting the waves roll over your feet as you look up to the sky. A blanket of stars twinkle faintly against the darkness. A variety of constellations shine proudly above, clear as day.

You feel so small under their gaze 

_Ursa Major, Leo, Hydra. _

Memories of nights spent up late with Hosea playing dominos resurface. You would constantly tie with one another, intellects _too_ matched. Sometimes the two of you wouldn’t sleep until the wee hours of the morning unless the streak was broken. Stubborn, the both of you. 

During those long, _ long _games, Hosea would regal you about each and every starry arrangement, right down to the name’s origin. Astronomy was never on your curriculum growing up, instead focusing on the drier parts of a lady’s “education". Etiquette, needlework, piano. All you knew of the stars above was from outdated books pilfered from your father’s library and nights spent camped on forest floors. 

Almost every night Hosea would teach you, properly. Disregarding your dominoes in favor of creating your own constellations from unused clusters of stars. An interstellar game of dots and tiles. He had even made one especially for you: The Huntress. A brave woman who vanquished all foes before her with nothing but her bow and her quick wit. 

It’s the last Earthly possession you have of Hosea. Everything else had been unwillingly abandoned during the destruction of Beaver Hollow, dead and gone. All you have now are these faint lights, watching silently over you. 

The frigid pinch of O'Creagh’s Run interrupts your musing. So distracted, you hadn’t realized just how far you had waded into the lake. Now in up to you knees, the bottom of your chemise soaked. What should be a shock, or at least an inconvenience, doesn’t seem to phase you. You just relish the softness of lakebed silt between your toes. And love how the water’s chill reminds you just how alive you truly are. 

You fiddle with the hem of your chemise. As the lace slides between your fingertips, you regard the celestial eye above. The moon is your only witness on these vast mountain trails. 

The veil drifts upward. 

Nothing can see you out here. Nothing can get you out here.

Let the moonlight be your guide and the water be a cleansing. 

Arthur’s jacket is discarded and a chemise with it over your shoulder. It lands with a gentle _ thud_; the barrier between you and the elements now lays in a heap on the shore.

_Take the plunge. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna make this longer but instead i'm gonna split this into two parts. next chapter: a midnight swim ensues.


	5. Moonlight Guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you go for a midnight swim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’re back on those sad yeehaw vibes this update

The water’s crisp chill envelops you wholly; it feels good against your bare skin - invigorating. You’re weightless, swimming among the stray bluegills that happen your way. Worldly burdens don't follow you beyond the lake’s edge.

_ Like water off a duck’s back. _

You reemerge to the surface, wet hair clinging to your back and you push the remaining strays off your forehead. The evening air nips at exposed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

It doesn’t bother you none. It instead acts as a reminder that you’re still capable of feeling such sensations. 

_ And helps to assuage the guilt. _

It’s a crushing weight on your chest, one that seems to get heavier the more that time keeps slowly inching forward. 

You’re still here. 

And others aren’t.

You pray the mountain waters can cleanse you of a stain that has plagued you since the fall of Beaver Hollow. 

_ No. _

Even weeks before that. Since Blackwater, starting with a nameless girl on a boat and ending with Hellfire. Fate pushed one domino and the ensuing fall condemned the Van der Linde’s to a pattern of bloodshed, destruction, and death. 

So much death. 

_ You’re still here. _

** _Why are you still here?_ **

<strike> **You shouldn’t be here.** </strike>

You stifle a cry, biting your lip until it withers and dies in your throat. These types ideations are incessant, rapid thoughts that show you no mercy. And it doesn’t seem like that will change anytime soon. You float on your back and look at the stars above in an attempt to calm them. 

The irony is almost as painful as the losses you’ve endured. 

You’re a hunter, a _ survivor_: self taught through books, trial and error, and pure tenacity. What once was worn as a badge of honor now casts an ugly scar across your heart. 

Jenny, Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly, Susan.

You lived.

And they died.

It seemed a higher power has deemed you worthier than other members of your family. 

Was it really that simple? 

Or could it be broken down to survival of the fittest? A complicated game of statistics and chances that predetermined everyone's worth.

What put you above others on this unknown hierarchy? 

_ Failure._

_ Useless._

You couldn’t do anything to save them.

_ Just sit there and look pretty. _

Tears silently roll down your cheeks and you ask aloud, _ why? _

The moon has no answer. It just envelops you in its pearly glow as it continues to rock you against the gentle lake waves. 

* * *

Arthur rouses with a drowsy call of your name, reaching over to find your side of the bed (unfortunately) empty. He calls for you again, a little more urgency in his voice as he wipes the sleep from his eyes.

Again he is met with silence and he promptly rises from bed to investigate. There’s no threat or sense of danger but he can’t quell the twenty years of fear that came with his old lifestyle. 

His jacket is gone from its usual perch on a chair; he instead spies it from the front window, crumpled on the shore. 

Worry fuels him as he hurriedly heads outside, clad in only his union suit. Stray rocks and twigs poke at the bottoms of his bare feet but he can’t bring himself to notice or care. 

Arthur’s anxiety bleeds into confusion when he notices your chemise laying just beside his jacket. He finally finds you, laying still and on your back a few meters into the water. 

Rationality blows away in the evening breeze and Arthur dashes into the water. He calls out to you as he struggles to cut through the waves as fast as possible. Despite his size and strength, Arthur is no match for the tides.

Arthur garners your attention, and you’re quite calm in contrast to how frantic he feels and looks. Strangely enough it puts him a little more at ease but does nothing to alleviate his concern. You’re standing when he finally reaches you, your nudity barely concealed by the water’s edge. 

Despite years of intimacy between you, Arthur still finds himself averting his gaze with a dust of red gracing his cheeks. Your chivalrous cowboy would still never dare to look upon you in any state of undress unless he knew you wanted him to. A fond smile finds its way to your lips as you cup his cheek, turning his face back towards you. 

The poor dear is soaked in his union suit, not sparing a second to remove it at the chance you could've been hurt. Distress is still heavily apparent in his eyes and you feel just dreadful for worrying him so.

_ I’m okay. _

It’s a blur between truth and lie; it calms him to know there’s no harm caused. But he is still bewildered, brow furrowed as he continues to look you over. 

Yes there’s nothing physically wrong, but he knows you _ so _much better than that. Arthur has learned how to conquer the battles that don’t require punches to be thrown or guns to be shot. 

“What’s goin’ on?” It’s poised so simply, but the question runs much deeper. His gaze is intense - he wants to know everything. There's no reasonable explanation for dashing off in the middle of the night for a midnight swim. 

“I,” you start but any semblance of an explanation gets stuck painfully in your throat. How do you begin to tell him the surge of emotions that scourge you? 

Such ugly things…

Arthur patiently awaits your response. He doesn’t push or pull, demand answers before you’re ready to give them. Tears cascade down your cheek and he’s there to sweep them away with a calloused thumb. 

“I,” you try again. “I don’t understand.” You’re shivering but it isn’t from the cold. “I don’t understand, Arthur.”

Arthur cups your cheek with a reserved tenderness. “Understand what, darlin’?” He genuinely wants to comprehend your anguish, if you’ll let him. 

“Why I’m here. Why I was deemed more deserving to draw another breath when,” the grief claws its way to the surface. “When others died.”

_ Say their names. _

“Sean, Lenny, H-“ the one that hurts the most is the hardest to speak. “H-Hosea. They’re all gone and I couldn’t do anything to save them.”

Your tears are incessant, falling harder, faster, and Arthur’s hold on you shifts to your shoulders. It’s grounding, and you wish you could thank him for that right now. 

“It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have-”

“Couldn’t have _ known_?” You interject. “Of course I could’ve! Dutch was on a downward spiral, it was painfully apparent how flawed his supposed ‘plans’ were!” Tears burn in the corners of your eyes and your breathing becomes labored as your anguish wraps its gnarled hands around your throat. 

“If I just spoke up, if I fought him even a little bit-“ Now it’s Arthur’s turn to interrupt as he takes your face carefully in his hands.

“Look at me,” he instructs and you hesitate to comply. He asks again, so sweetly this time it practically hurts to ignore. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes, not an ounce of blame or scrutiny. 

“There was nothing you could’ve done. Dutch,” Arthur’s own pain comes out at the mention of his ex mentor’s name but he is quick to compose himself. “Dutch had us all fooled. Pretty words and speeches that were nothin’ more than hot air.” 

“All our losses, all our failures, that’s a burden for his shoulders,” Arthur leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against your own. “Not yours.” 

You press your forehead to his and revel in the feeling of his fingers against your skin. Sobs transition into sighs when he begins to kiss the tears away from your cheeks reverently. 

“I’m here because of _ you_.” It’s a reminder that steals the breath from your lungs. Arthur is alive, here in this world to live another day by your side. 

“You say you didn’t fight hard enough? If you had listened to me, I would be dead and rotting on Roanoke Ridge.” The mere thought is more excruciating than any bullet to the chest and you can’t contain the sob that wracks you. Arthur shushes you softly with another well placed kiss. 

“You did everything you could, darlin’.” You’ve done so much, and the gratitude Arthur has for your efforts is insurmountable. The crosses you’re bearing aren’t meant to be carried by you.

Give him your pain. 

Give him _ everything. _

“What can I do?” Another question that goes beyond mere simplicity. His lips are a whisper away from your own, awaiting your answer. Arthur would likely never shake the habit of willingly following orders. But if you were the one making the demands, he would fall to his knees and obey time and time again.

“Arthur,” his name sounds honeyed sweet as it falls from your lips. He graces you with a small smile while you think. You take his hand in yours, tracing it down your body and stopping just above your breast. Another endearing blush is cast across his face.

“Help me forget,” and you finally close the gap between the two of you, kissing him feverishly. Arthur responds in kind; he will gladly be a vessel for your desires if that’s what you need. 

The moon shines above the lake, and it will continue to do so. Many had come and gone but Arthur was still here. 

_You’re _still here. 

And that is enough for now.


	6. Just Settle Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur poses an important question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been a long time coming and thank you all for being so patient with me, for some reason this chapter was such a personal hurdle. i hope you enjoy and i can't wait to keep this story going.

Arthur has unconventional definitions of love. One he originally believed started with Mary. But after years of reflection and introspection, Arthur realized it ran deeper, began sooner.

He’s a young boy, with a father he loathes and silently mourning a mother he still thinks about fondly. A father who is a “no good bastard”, who taught him nothing but contempt and that wickedness could have a face.

Blood is thicker than water?

What a crock of shit.

They’re bitter memories, painful. But a sweetness tinges them, immortalized in the form of six pink flowers and a weathered portrait he still keeps beside his bed - even to this day. Sentimentality is a blessing and a curse.

Now he’s fourteen, on the cusp of manhood and something else entirely. He’s angry. Angry at a dead father who left him with nothing but the hat on his head and a measly mugshot. Angry at the world that couldn’t give a shit about him but still insists on taking, taking, and _taking_.

But mostly he’s alone, scared; he can snarl and bare his teeth all he likes but he’s still just a child. Arthur yearns for companionship, for a family that he never truly had growing up. For things he was wrongly denied.

It’s unorthodox, but eventually, he does find what he’s looking for. In the form of a younger Dutch and Hosea: the curious couple and their new unruly son.

_The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb._

And for twenty long years, he had a father - two in fact! They took him in off the streets, taught him how to read, write, shoot. Raised him from a boy to a man capable of finally taking back from this cruel world and then some.

From Hosea, he learned empathy, humanity. And from Dutch, loyalty, a code of honor.

Despite all his hypocrisies, Arthur can’t wash away and deny that he is who he is because of Dutch van der Linde.

Arthur tries to focus on the good years as much as he tries to forget the ugly, warped ending to that chapter of his life. It’s a continuous uphill struggle but that’s nothing new for him, just more difficult to deal with.

Thinking of some good years…

He’s traversing through his twenties now.

Arthur has had a tryst from time to time as a young man, reveling in the experiences of his first kiss and other means of getting handsy. He was awkward at first, as any boy is when they delve into the unknown fruits adolescence bears. Fumbling hands, a nervous flush dusting his cheeks, all bundled in a veil of naivety.

Hosea used to tell everyone, drunk around the campfire, the humiliating tales of a younger Arthur. His particular favorite being when Arthur came to him, on the verge of tears, thinking he now had to marry a local stable girl because he dared to kiss her behind dear old daddy’s barn.

But then there was Mary.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

Formerly known as Gillis, and soon to be Linton. A name no one dared to whisper around camp for years. In a life filled with killing, robbing, and running from the law, Mary was possibly the most complicated aspect of it.

She yearned for things Arthur couldn’t give or be. Wanted a man that Arthur couldn’t become despite his best efforts.

_Loyalty is the only thing that matters…_

A belief that cost him happiness time and time again.

It wasn’t just Mary at fault - Arthur couldn’t deliver on his promises either.

In the end, he tried. Tried to mold himself into someone worthy of her and her cantankerous father’s expectations of what a man should be. Tried to be one of those Saint Denis socialites with their coiffed hair and perfectly tailor suits. But despite all the gussying, primping and grooming, he was just a rugged outlaw playing at a gentleman. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It took him a while to overcome his heartbreak, to realize she had her own heavy crosses to bear the same as he did. Roles to fill, people to placate despite the pining of the ever-fickle heart. Coming to terms with that wasn’t easy despite the ever apparent facts. And like many before him, Arthur shared his sorrows with the bottom of a bottle and buried them deeper between the legs of a stranger.

_Eliza…_

Her name still fills him with guilt, albeit it a dull ache now in contrast to the agonizing stabbing he once felt on his heart. She was just a girl trying to get by, barely on the cusp of twenty, who just happened upon Arthur in a disgustingly familiar drunken stupor as he wallowed in self-pity and the bitter taste of whiskey. She humored him, at least he thinks she did. Or it could’ve been a kindness, he can’t quite recall after all these years.

But she slept with him, let him indulge in his therapeutic carnal desires all the while he sputtered out another woman’s name. He was reckless, careless and he couldn’t give less of a damn at the time.

And as a result, it got her…

It got _them_…

He can’t dwell on it now, refuses to. The thoughts weigh heavy on him, crushing his ribs in a vice and stealing the breath he counts himself lucky to have from his lungs.

He tries to distract himself, instead focus on things more lighthearted to ease his troubled thoughts. He starts with something tangible, for instance, the small ring in his pocket that suddenly feels ten times heavier than the burdens he that weigh on his bad shoulders. And the girl he intends to give it to...

You.

He doesn’t think he can articulate how much you mean to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying within the confines of a _new_ leather-clad journal. No longer does he write harsh words of self-deprecation and hopelessness. They’re kinder, eloquent and beautiful. Soft lines that make out the shape of you adorned with hearts. He melds into your embrace all too easy now, and despite two decades of bloodshed and dodging Death’s scythe, he’s never felt safer than in your arms.

Arthur never thought life would deem him worthy of second chances. Dealing him a fortunate hand with a new life, new purpose, new love. Absolution was not a word his tongue was familiar with, yet here he stands on the porch to his - _your_ home. The stains of his past don't follow him beyond the mountains and rolling hills.

The Van der Linde gang is gone - scattered, dead, or both. Arthur Morgan, Dutch’s right-hand gun has turned in his holsters and bandolier and has now found work as a simple carpenter in Annesburg. He spends his day building and expanding the ever-growing civilization he was trying to run from. A law-abiding everyday man. The irony isn’t lost on him. But it’s good work, honest work. The kind that only cares if you’re strong and able and doesn’t focus on the minute details of one’s _extensive_ criminal record.

And he’s proud to say that after months of arduous labor, he managed to save enough for the ring that seems to be burning a hole in his pocket. It’s humble but elegant with a single diamond resting in the middle of a pale gold band.

_Like her_, Arthur idly muses with a smile.

Ideally, he would’ve loved to grace your finger with some luxurious rock as a grandiose display of his affection. A massive diamond that would glint perfectly in the light atop rare platinum. It would’ve been all too easy to hold up some pompous jeweler, the routine and its step all but muscle memory at this point. But that’s not how one does when trying to leave behind the life of an outlaw and it wouldn’t be a proper way to start your marriage.

_Marriage_.

The concept alone has him frozen in front of his own home, trembling with excitement. He thought Mary would be his everything at one point - the future Mrs. Morgan. When she left he felt as if she took that possibility with her along with the shards of his fractured heart. There's a hint of fear in him as well, a nagging sense that history could repeat itself once more. Round and round the thoughts go in his head as he opens the door with a shaking hand, rattling painfully in his skull.

_I’m not ready for this._

Dread surges through him, rough seas raging against his chest as his heart threatens to burst. He’s been shot at, beat, and tortured but this plunge he’s about to take might possibly be one of the scariest things he’s ever done.

Arthur somehow manages to get the door open, feet heavier than lead as he makes his way through the threshold. The sound of your singing from the garden out back restores his composure, lulling him into a serenity once more. He’s refocused, and the tremors that plague him gradually cease. There’s a reinvigorated sense of purpose, sparked to life once more, and he eagerly calls your name in response.

“Out here, Arthur!” You chirp back and Arthur wastes no time following the sound of your voice. He doesn’t realize how quickly he rushes to the backdoor until the afternoon sun is blinding him. When he regains his vision he finds you tending to your plants, a basket of freshly picked vegetables at your side and a tender smile on your lips.

_Beautiful_.

“Happy to see me, are we darling?” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it - he hadn’t realized he’d spoken that last sentiment aloud. A flush creeps up the back of Arthur’s neck, spreading up to his ears and painting them an embarrassing shade of red. He hopes you don’t notice in the sunlight but when your smile turns into a playful smirk, he knows there's no chance of hiding it now.

Arthur clears his throat, “Always am, sweet pea.”

Your impishness seems to have passed for the time being, your simper losing its bite as you turn your attention back to your gardening. “How was work today?” You ask idly as you go to work pulling another carrot from the dirt.

It was the same as any other day, building more housing for the miners in the ramshackle town of Annesburg. Who can think about something so mundane when there were bigger picture things for him to be concerned about? But still, he answers back with a simple, “Good.”

You titter at that. “How positively exciting, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur wishes he had more to offer in terms of a response but he’s too distracted by you. There’s dirt smudged on your cheeks and hands, skirt a wrinkled mess, and hair in a messy braid to keep out of the way of your gardening. Some might find you disheveled but he thinks you look absolutely lovely- as always.

A voice in the back of his mind whispers, _She’s not her_.

He finds himself imagining what you would look like in all white, waiting for him at the altar of a church. Maybe at the cathedral in Saint Denis where the colors of the impressive stained glass would shine down on you, casting you in an ethereal rainbow glow. In your hand is a bouquet of the finest flowers: lavender, honeysuckle, daisies. A gossamer of silk covers your face, that same breathtaking smile on your lips as Arthur makes his way towards you and-

“Arthur?” You snap him out of the daydreaming he inadvertently slipped into. “Are you alright?”

“I-” He struggles to find the right words, _any_ words, but comes up short. You look at him expectantly but that only makes him more tongue-tied. Christ, he’s a grown man, this shouldn’t be so difficult.

“You…” You try to ease him into something resembling a response, bless your heart, but still, nothing.

So instead he opts for action.

Arthur gets down on one knee in the dirt with you, going for the ring he still has nestled in his jacket. Your eyes go wide at the gesture, and even wider when he silently presents the ring to you.

“I,” he begins again, voice a little stronger in its conviction. “I love you. More than you could ever know.” He takes your hand with his free one, running his fingers over your knuckles softly. Tears begin to well up in your eyes and you can’t help as they begin to trail down your cheeks.

Arthur continues, “You are my heart, my soul, my everything. Without you, Hell, I wouldn’t even be in front of you to ask this. When I’m with you, everything makes sense. And I’m ready, really ready to start over, good and proper. With you.”

It’s time to leave Arthur Morgan the outlaw, the man shackled by so many fears and doubts behind in the ashes of what once was. His rebirth comes in dreams of the future, hand in hand and growing old by the fireplace. 

_Together._

“So I was wonderin’...what I’m trying to ask is you would-”

“Yes,” you whisper, unable to find your own voice now. You heart is hammering fiercely, galloping like a wild horse at the sheer intensity of Arthur’s proposal.

He can’t help but chuckle at your ardor, endearing (and relieving) as it may be. “You didn’t let me-”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes a thousand times yes you silly man!” you exclaim with no hesitation this time, throwing yourself on him and peppering him with kisses. “Yes,” you repeat over and over and over, as many times as you can to reaffirm you aren't dreaming. That this isn’t your own self-made mirage that could vanish at any moment.

Arthur is momentarily stunned and brings you as close to him as possible, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he finds his own tears starting to form. The same voice is back, no longer a whisper but a firm reassurance of, _She isn’t her. She isn’t any of them._

_And she never will be._

“Say it again.” 

_Let it be real._

Your lips find his now, in between each kiss marked with a, “yes”. 

A single syllable has him enraptured, spellbound. Such a glorious admittance, the most heavenly sound he’s ever heard.

And as he slips the ring onto your finger, the both of you grinning madly, he thinks “I do” will sound even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was reviewed and edited by the lovely @verai-marcel on tumblr! thank you for always being so patient with me and helping out whenever i need it.


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